


Light a Match In Your Heart

by Mudblood428



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst and Romance, Boys In Love, Declarations Of Love, First Time, M/M, Magic Restored, Mother-Son Relationship, Slightly unrealistic portrayal of first time in bed, but they're mages so anything is possible, love heals, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-26 13:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18181043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mudblood428/pseuds/Mudblood428
Summary: More than a year and a half after leaving Watford, Simon and Baz finally have the flat to themselves. There's only one problem: alone time has converged on the calendar with the anniversary of Baz's Turning and Natasha Pitch's death. With painful memories and old wounds threatening to separate them, surviving August the twelfth means Baz and Simon must choose between facing the past alone or overcoming it together.





	1. Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drvivc (Fight_Surrender)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/gifts).



**NATASHA**

 

Basilton used to be afraid of the dark.

“Mummy, don’t go,” he pleaded one night as I turned off the lamps at bedtime. “The wraiths will start rattling the bedposts because they know I don’t like it, and I can’t find Bear anywhere. I think they stole him.”

At the end of a wearying week managing affairs at Watford, it was hard not to tell my imperious 5 year-old that Bear was not necessary for sleep and that any proper Pitch would send the wraiths away without thinking twice, but Basil always bore a sweet vulnerability I just couldn’t resist.

I glanced under his bed, and there I found Bear.

“Look what we have here.”

He took the toy from my hand and clutched it tightly to his chest. “What about the wraiths?” he asked in a small voice.

I sat down beside him on the bed and smiled. “Oh, dash the wraiths. There’s nothing in the darkness that can have power over you,” I explained, “because you possess something the wraiths can’t rattle or steal away. Can you guess what it is?”

Listening now with rapt attention, my son shook his head. Then, I leaned in, as if to share a portentous secret.

“No matter how dark the shadows become, you always carry with you a light.” I pressed my hand over his heart. “Here.”

Ever the little skeptic, he scrunched up his nose and looked at me askance. “If there’s a light, why can’t I see it?” he asked.

“Well, I can show it to you if you like,” I said. “Would you like to see?”

He nodded excitedly, sitting up in his bed.

“Come sit on my lap and hold my hand,” I said, helping him out from beneath his blankets and drawing my wand from my sleeve. I sent my voice clearly into the open air: “ ** _One hand. One heart._** ”

With my wand, I drew a circle over our heads, and we began to glow, a pair of beacons in the night.

Basilton gasped, his eyes wide. “Mummy,” he whispered, “you were right! I can see it!”

“Of course I’m right.”

“What is it? Where does it come from?”

I hugged him close and pressed my cheek to his hair. “It’s love, darling. It’s ours, and it’s always there,” I said. “Now then. Next time the wraiths bother you, what are you going to do?”

He gripped my fingers tightly, and our hands glowed brighter.

“I’m going to tell them to get back in the shadows.”

“Good man,” I said, winking. “Back to bed with you, little puff.”

Tucking the sheets around him, I kissed his temple, leaving a bright mark on his skin where my lips touched him. Then I sat with him as he drifted off to sleep, lingering to savor Basilton’s fleeting boyhood as the light of the spell began to fade around us.

He’s not a boy anymore.

Even so. I like to think he still bears the mark.

 

**BAZ**

 

I hate August. This whole month should be illegal.

It’s _hot_ , which, given my proclivity for low body temperatures wouldn’t be a problem—except the sun’s rays are especially unforgiving on my skin and the air smells too sharp because everything around me is sweating profusely or otherwise fermenting in the heat. Moreover, London has been taken over by tourists in white trainers and ill-fitting hats, filling the tube stations and my nostrils with such a powerful aroma of blood, I spend the bulk of the month simmering in an atmosphere of general discomfort and irritation.

Also, it’s the anniversary of my Turning.

And of my mother’s death.

Fucking August.

The only good to come out of this season is the extra time I get to spend with Snow, as our classes have paused for the summer. Of course, Penelope Bunce has joined us nearly every day (what with her genuinely stunning inability to grasp the entire “third wheel” concept). I like Bunce quite a lot, actually—she’s a fierce friend and a savvy conversationalist—but Simon and I haven’t had a chance to regroup since school let out, and we’ve been aching for alone time.

I wish it hadn’t taken her until August to vacate the premises. For five days only, she’s gone back home to receive relatives (which, given the size of her accommodations, must mean she’s sleeping in the bathtub). I should be grateful for the time alone with Simon, but instead, I’m anxious. The extra hours of daylight make me intolerable to be around already, but it’s all made worse by the encroaching date on the calendar.

I really think this anniversary got harder to bear once Simon, Bunce, and I discovered what truly happened that day and why.

“Oi, you going to be much longer?” Simon’s voice comes from the other side of the bathroom door. (His bathroom. I’m at his flat.) “My teeth are floating out here!”

“Keep your knickers on. I’ll just be a moment.”

I wash my hands and, examining myself in the mirror, my eyes reflexively look down toward my neck. I imagine scars, raised and bright red, in the shape of teeth. At least that’s how I think they must have looked; I’ve no memory of having them. Around the same time my skin lost its colour, the bite marks disappeared completely; it was a boon for maintaining my ruse at Watford, but my brain can fill in the missing evidence whenever it wants to. Only when the familiar dark knot of rage coils in my stomach do I look away from my reflection.

I open the bathroom door to reveal Simon dancing outside it. “It’s all yours,” I drawl, and he kisses my cheek on his way in after me.

“Penny’s gonna be gone for an extra three days,” comes Simon’s muffled voice from inside the loo. “It feels like it’s Christmas, and she’s gift-wrapped the flat for us.”

“Don’t forget I’m due in Hampshire tomorrow,” I say, taking a seat on the chaise. There isn’t a mandatory requirement to be home on the anniversary of my mother’s death; it’s just where I've always been, excepting last year. (The magic over Hampshire hadn’t returned yet.) It’s dark there and quiet, Mordelia notwithstanding. I’ll play my violin or journal or sit in the library with a book. With so much empty space at Pitch Manor, it is the ideal location for anyone seeking to misplace themselves for a while, and I’m particularly eager to get lost.

“Leave in the morning, then,” he says dismissively. “How often do we get this place to ourselves? The stars have practically aligned!”

He doesn’t say it outright, but I know what he’s talking about.

We’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for months.

So far, Simon and I have enjoyed a fairly chaste relationship, and though we’ve made tentative steps into intimate territory, we’ve never crossed _that_ particular line. My "condition" aside, emerging from the White Chapel emotionally scarred and traumatized had a good deal to do with the snail's pace of our physical relationship, but by the time we’d felt any sort of peace about everything that had happened that night, Snow and I had already settled into a mundanity we couldn’t seem to escape from.

Our thoughts turned back toward intimacy only after we’d both started university. We talk about it. Text about it. Chomsky knows our mobile phones have a more exciting sex life than we do. Though I’m at his flat all the time, neither of us can steal a moment alone together when we aren’t in danger of Bunce charging into Simon’s room like the bloody cavalry with her latest epiphany on social justice for magical creatures.

(Also, my flat isn’t an option. I simply cannot have sex with Simon with Fiona a room away. It’s not fucking possible. Period, the end.)

I’m not sure what’s stopping me tonight.

He’s right. The stars have aligned. And I want him. I always do.

It’s _me_ I don’t want right now.

“I wish I could,” I say. “It’s been a rather stressful week.”

Snow emerges from the bathroom with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Are you serious?” he asks. “You really don’t want to stay the night?”

“I think I’d be miserable company.”

“Try me,” he says, concerned, and he sits beside me. “I make an excellent distraction.”

“I’m aware.” I manage a small grin. “I’m just tired, Snow. Leave it alone.”

“You’re tired a lot lately,” Snow says softly. “I know when there’s a bee in your bonnet.”

He does. In moments like this, his talent for reading me is infuriating.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me, Baz.”

“Crowley, what is this, an interrogation?” I huff, pressure building in my chest. “It’s nothing you need concern yourself with. I’m fine. I’m just spread a bit thin lately, that’s all.”

“Then, let me help,” he says, and with one hand, he smooths my hair away from my neck so he can kiss it.

The very thought of someone’s mouth on my neck…

“You can’t help,” I snap, leaping to my feet.

“What’s going on with you? You’re acting like we’re fifth years again and you’re skulking around with some terrible secret.”

I can’t say it aloud. He doesn’t deserve to be pulled into my personal nightmares. Aleister almighty, I just want to wallow in self pity for a bit, which I can’t do if Snow is around because, without family or magic, he actually might be more pitiable than I am.

I’m trying to figure out how to put a swift end to this conversation when Snow figures it out. Because he _always_ figures it out. I hear his intake of air as his hand flies to his mouth.

“Tomorrow is August the twelfth. That’s what this is about isn’t it?” he murmurs.

So much for discretion.

“Oh, Baz…”

He reaches for my hand, but I yank it away. “ _Enough_ ,” I snarl, rounding on him. “I don’t need saving, all right? I’m not a fucking damsel in distress! Why is it you can’t seem to bugger off whenever I just need some space?”

I’ve stunned him into silence. I’ve stunned myself as well.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and though I mean it, my remorse doesn’t reach my words. Because I'm an intolerable arsehole and I can never control the ice in my voice whenever I’ve let the numbness set in.

Snow doesn’t look angry, though. He looks disappointed, which is infinitely worse. In less than a minute, I’ve succeeded in proving to both of us that, even after all this time, I still know exactly how to say the most cruel thing like it’s an involuntary reflex.

After a moment’s silence that spans an eternity, he speaks at last.

“Do you know what I miss most about having magic?”

In answer, I shake my head. Something in Simon’s voice has triggered a painful twinge in my chest.

He looks away from me. “How I felt whenever I shared it with you.”

The blood drains from my face.

Simon smiles wistfully. “I was finally connected to someone,” he continues. “Focused. Not faulty or damaged. Not alone. You let me in, and for the first time, I felt... complete.”

“And now?” I ask, and I realise my heart is pounding because I’m frightened.

“And now,” he says quietly, “well, I’m locked out, aren’t I.”

I run a hand over my face. “Simon—”

“I know you don’t need someone poking his nose into your affairs. You don't need someone forcing you to share your hurts. You’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t need to share a bed. Perhaps you also don’t need a daily reminder in the form of an awkward, winged ex-mage that the part of me you fell in love with died with the Humdrum,” he continues, his eyes cold. “I dunno. Doesn't much seem like you need me at all, does it?”

Therapy has apparently given Simon an expanded vocabulary for describing his emotions. For my part, I’ve lost my command of words. Everything he’s just said has settled in my heart like shards of glass.

A moment of agonizing emptiness passes between us before Simon nods curtly and stands up. “You’re right. Maybe it’s better if you head back to Fiona’s tonight. Good night.”

He takes a step toward me, thinks better of it, then vanishes into his room, the door clicking softly behind him.

I’m alone, now.

And worse, so is Simon.

 

**SIMON**

 

I don’t hear Baz leave. It’s not unexpected. He always slips in and out of my flat like a shadow, and I suppose I should take comfort in knowing I don’t have to invite him in like he’s any other vampire. If he’s able to come and go as he pleases, it must mean my flat has become home to him at least a little.

The day after Baz and I have our worst argument in over a year, I immediately slip back into old habits, moving and doing and purposely not thinking for the sake of keeping myself together. Ultimately, I decide to distract myself with a long walk around London with no particular destination in mind. There’s no one to spell my wings or tail invisible, but to my surprise, no one says anything. (Evidently, there’s a comic convention in Manchester Park, and I fit right in with all the cosplayers.)

I only stop for lunch at a sandwich shop and again to buy myself Chinese take-away for one, which I eat alone seated on the wall facing the Thames Barrier. After that, I detour to one of the only bakery shops where I can find a decent sour cherry scone.

I buy two. Wishful thinking.

The clouds are turning pink with the setting sun as I decide to turn back. The city seems full of couples this summer, arm in arm crossing the street, sharing park benches and dinners and kisses. Holding hands.

I miss Baz.

I don’t miss him for long, though. When I return to the flat, I open my door to find him seated on my chaise.

The lights are off, but by the street lights filtering in through the window, I can see he’s pale, hunched over with his forearms resting on his knees and his hands clasped, like he’s in criminal court awaiting a sentence.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you were in Hampshire today.”

“I didn’t go to Hampshire.”

For someone who would look put together in the middle of a hurricane, Baz looks slightly frayed at the edges. “Why not? Are you ill? Do you need to drink?” I ask, concerned.

“Neither, thank you,” he says in a low voice. “I just haven’t slept much.”

I sit beside him because I’m not sure what else to do and also because, after a day of unsuccessfully running from my emotions, I’m relieved he’s here and just want to be near him. As soon as I sit, he takes my hand.

“I’ve been a terrible boyfriend,” he murmurs, holding my hand tightly.

I say nothing. Not that I agree, but rather because I’m surprised Baz would say something so unguarded given how he’s been acting lately.

He goes on. “I know I’ve been distant. It’s that dreaded time of year when I observe my mother’s death and become a miserable wanker over being a vampire and missing her. I was afraid to let you see me grieving,” he admits, “since I’ve no right feeling sorry for myself when you’ve lost your magic and never even knew your parents.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I was so stuck in my thoughts, it never occured to me that keeping my pain to myself was selfish. I’m sorry, Simon. Truly.”

I begin to protest. “You don’t have to—“

“Please,” he interrupts, still staring at the floor. “You know I'm supremely horrible at this sort of thing. I’m just trying to… let you in.”

I nod. Baz turns his gaze to our linked fingers.

“You talked about being damaged like you were the only one who felt that way. Before you shared your magic with me, I was destined for a half-life spent angry and lonely until such day I thought you would finally put me out of my misery for good. But then,” he murmurs, “you defied all my expectations. You had a chance to get rid of me, and instead, you helped me. You opened yourself to me—your sworn enemy—and filled me with your fire.” Baz runs his thumb over my knuckles and smiles. “I might still be a bit broken, but after that night, a wound I thought I’d have forever began to heal. Only it wasn’t your magic that did it, Simon. It was you,” he says.

His eyes lift to look at me for the first time since I stepped through the door.

“Your decency. Your innocence. How you saw something in me worth saving when I couldn’t see it myself. Your stupid, reckless, insufferable courage. Only you would march straight into a blazing death trap of my own making and kiss me back to life, you daft arse,” he adds, grinning.

I blush under Baz’s tender gaze and try to swallow down the lump that has formed in my throat.

Still holding my hand, he stands up and faces me. “You said the part of you I fell in love with died with the Humdrum. That I didn’t need you. You couldn’t be more wrong.” Baz pulls me to my feet, and his arms circle around my waist, his palms coming to rest under my wings. He leans his chin against my shoulder. I can't remember the last time he's held me this way.

“It’s true, your magic drew me to you. But it didn’t make me love you. It didn’t make me need you. And I _need_ you, Simon,” he whispers, placing slow, gentle kisses along the slope of my neck as he goes on. “Like blood... Like magic... Like air... I need you....”

Our lips meet in the dark.

“I need you, too,” I whisper against his mouth.

Baz’s lips leave mine and glide across my cheek. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs into my ear, before tugging gently at my earlobe with his teeth.

It feels so good, I’m floating. Dizzy. “You,” I answer, pushing my hand into his hair as his mouth slips under my jaw. “Always you.”

“Then, take me.”

My heart skips a beat in my chest. I pull away to look at him.

“What are you saying?”

Baz’s grey eyes focus on mine in the low light, and a tingling sensation spreads down my neck and shoulders. “I think you know.”

It takes me less than a second to go from disbelief to desire. “You don’t have to,” I breathe, gripping his shirt collar and staring pointedly at his lips.

“Yes, I do.”

Baz’s mouth descends on mine, and I kiss him back with a mindless desperation (because I literally can’t string together a coherent thought). Tugging his shirt from his trousers, I push him backwards and we land hard against the wall in my hallway. My hands run up Baz’s arms and over his chest, pausing over his shirt buttons. “Can I…?”

“What are you waiting for,” he hisses, “an invitation from the Queen?”

As quickly as my fingers can manage in the dark, I undo the buttons on his shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders. At the same time, Baz is fumbling with my belt and then the zipper on my trousers. He succeeds in freeing me from everything I’m wearing below the waist and casts a quick spell to help my shirt come off without tearing around my wings. Then, he balances with both his hands on my shoulders while I finish undressing him.

We’re standing together in my hallway now, hands on skin. Completely starkers. I’m suddenly _very_ aware of my spare parts, to the degree that my wings involuntarily retract. (It’s laughable. As if it were remotely possible to hide them behind my back.)

Baz reads my mind. “Simon,” he whispers, reaching out to touch one. “You’re breathtaking.”

I sigh and relax under his adoring gaze. “You should talk, you magnificent prat, “I say quietly. “I’ve never seen anything as perfect as you in all my life.” It’s the truth. He’s lean and strong and the bold lines that make up his body are so agonizingly beautiful that I actively have to stop myself from knocking him over and ravaging him right here in front of Penny’s room.

I can’t imagine what she’d say if she knew what Baz and I were doing...

Baz’s hands float up to cradle my face, and he dives forward again to kiss me urgently. Heat surges in my chest like I’ve been seared in the heart with a branding iron. The moment he rolls himself into my hips, my breathing careens out of my own control.

“Bed,” I gasp.

Baz nods emphatically. “Agreed.”

I chase him into my bedroom, and once I’ve crossed the threshold I grab his wrist and spin him around to kiss him soundly on the mouth. My tongue slides lightly over his as I guide us carefully toward the bed, kicking shoes and textbooks out of the way until Baz’s legs ride up on the edge of the sheets. He tastes sweet.

“Crowley, this room is a fucking numpty nest,” he mutters between kisses.

I smile against his lips. “You know you love it.”

“I’m making you clean it tomorrow.”

I deliver a quick shove to his shoulders, and he falls back onto the bed.

“You’ll have to pry me off of you first.”

Baz laughs and shifts away from me, but I advance on him, crawling over the sheets. I catch him by his leg and drag my lips against the inside of his knee, working my way up his thigh, over his stomach, and along his chest. When Baz reaches the headboard and I’m on all fours above him, we pause.

And then we grow quiet. We gaze at one another in the dim glow of the street lamps through the window.

Merlin, this is really happening.

Baz takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth. He kisses my fingertips.

“Do you know how to do this?” I ask.

“When have you ever known me to be unprepared?”

“But my wings—”

“It’s all right, love,” he says. “You can stay above me.”

“You’re sure this is what you want?”

The look Baz gives me is almost predatorial.  “Simon Snow, I’ve wanted to make love to you since I was fifteen. Crowley, when I think of the torment of those endless nights lying across from you at Watford, wishing I could just wrap myself around you and forget my own name to the sound of your moaning,” he breathes, holding the sides of my face. “Yes, I’m fucking sure.”

“Bloody hell, Baz… I’m gonna lose my mind hearing you talk like this...”

“That’s not all you’re going to lose.”

I find his mouth again and melt against him. My body is charged with the sensation of so much skin against mine. He’s slightly above room temperature, which is practically burning by Baz’s standards.

And I can’t stop touching him. My hands are in his hair, then skating over his chest, then gripping his hips. I’m kissing him like I’m underwater and he’s air. I don’t know how I would ever have gotten through Watford if I’d let myself think about Baz the way he was thinking about me. I’m endlessly impressed by his willpower. If I’d allowed myself to contemplate my constant urge to touch him back then, I wonder if I would have spent infinitely less time throwing punches at him and far more time sneaking into his bed.

After a long moment focused above his waist, I finally draw myself onto my knees between his legs. “Just tell me what to do.”

Baz guides me through the prelude. He’s tentative with his instructions; what he’s asking me to do is more intimate than anything we’ve ever done that hasn’t involved sharing magic. I keep expecting to feel strange about what’s happening, but touching him this way doesn’t feel weird or profane. In fact, it’s utterly turning me on.

To think he ever thought of himself as a monster when his body is such a fucking miracle.

I’m trying to be gentle with him, but it’s hard to pay attention. I can hear him battling himself to retain composure in his voice, and the sounds of his struggle to stay coherent while my fingers explore sends all the blood in me southward. He’s so... _present_. His mind and heart and body are all entirely focused on me and it makes me sizzle with desire.

“Are you nervous?” He asks suddenly, his voice taut like a string.

“A little. You?” I chuckle sheepishly.

I fully expect Baz to be perfectly calm and collected—a paragon of cool confidence in bed. Instead he turns his face bashfully toward the pillow, lets out a ragged breath, and says, “Yeah.”

I pause in my ministrations and smile. “Well, saw me in half. What on earth for?”

“I’m a vampire, for starters.”

I decide this isn’t the right moment to discuss my private fantasy, in which a certain Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch III bites me in the heat of passion and Turns me.

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I know that. I do,” he says, looking anxiously away. “Being logistically prepared isn’t quite the same as knowing what will happen. I just want it to be—”

“Perfect?” I interrupt, rising up onto my hands and knees to hover over him. “It already is. It’s you and me. Same as always.”

Baz fixes me with an earnest gaze. He reaches up and brushes a curl out of my eyes. “I love you, Simon.”

I take his hand and press it over the spot where my heart is trying to burst free from my chest. “I love you, too,” I breathe. “I mean to show you just how much.”

Baz swallows hard, laces his long fingers through mine, and whispers, “Come on, then.”

“Okay. All right...” I nod and settle myself above him.

I imagine jumping off a tall building must feel something like this.

Slowly… carefully... I push forward until I‘m utterly immersed in unexpected warmth. Our breaths come in uneven gusts. He gasps and bites his lip, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Baz is shaking. We both are.

“Is this… okay?” I ask, my voice wavering. “Am I hurting you?”

“I’m okay,” he answers, so quietly I strain to hear him. “It’s pressure… not pain.”

Merlin, he’s so beautiful; I can only imagine how ridiculous I must look compared to Baz in his breathtaking passion. It’s so much sensation and emotion at once that I don’t know what’s happening to me. My body is on the precipice of shock, trembling and tingling from head to foot, like I’ve been doused in a fizzy drink.

“Are _you_ alright?” he whispers, lifting my chin to look at me.

“God, yes. I’m… just a bit overwhelmed.”

“We can stop if—”

“No, I’m fine. More than fine. I just…” I let out an incredulous laugh. “My whole life, I never imagined this. You and I. I never thought… I never knew…”

Baz runs a thumb over my lips, silencing me. “I’ll thank magic every day for the rest of my life for that truce.”

“ _You’re_ my magic now,” I breathe.

I bend to kiss him over his heart. And then, I start to move. Because it feels right. Because I can tell by the look in his eyes—pleading and expectant—that he wants me to. As I do, his eyes slip shut and he hooks his leg over me, bringing me deeper inside. We gasp in unison at the sensation.

None of my previous encounters with Baz’s mouth and hands have prepared me for this. I’m already about to die in his arms and we’ve only just begun. Something in the act of holding him through his ecstasy, his labored breath on my skin, and hearing his voice deepen into moans is lighting me up from inside. I’m watching this living monument to aristocratic composure crumble to pieces under my hands, and it makes me feel more powerful than I’d ever felt when I was a mage. I’m unraveling fast.

Thankfully, so is he. “Fuck... Simon… Don’t stop… I’m so close…” he gasps, his head thrown back against the pillow.

“Look at me,” I murmur. “I want to see your face.”

Baz pries open his eyes. His lips are parted. His chest is heaving. Oh, _his eyes_. They’re so full of love and want and disbelief. Looking into them feels like peering directly into my own soul.

“Baz… I’m almost… Do you want me to—“

“Yes,” he moans, gripping my arms. “Crowley, yes. Just let go…”

“Want you... with me...”

“Then touch me...”

I rock more enthusiastically into him at which point my eyes stop focusing. I reach down between us, my touch making him cry out softly. The sound falls on my ears like a live wire and I succumb to panting, Baz matching me breath for breath. His fingernails dig into my triceps. My pulse is pounding in my ears.

I’m too loud. I don’t care. He’s all that matters.

He’s everywhere.

Around me. In my every breath.

My whole universe.

A galaxy of stars.

“ _Oh._.. _Simon_ …”

Going nova.

Shattering.

My heart.

“ _Baz_ …”

Bursting.

_Oh God._

 

**BAZ**

I see the flash before I feel it.

Like day breaking between us.

Then energy. A current surging through me.

 _Power_.

Then bliss.

Simon has collapsed on top of me, his strength spent. I’m wrecked as well, but my eyes are wide open, unbelieving, tears running from the corners onto the pillow. For a moment, I wonder if Simon has gone off, and then I remember... he can’t.

_Can he?_

I’m shaking so much it takes all my remaining focus to draw my arms around him and hold him to me. His face is buried in my neck. Weakly, he shifts his arms up under my shoulders. We’re both a mess, out of breath and slicked in sweat, my mouth so dry it takes several tries to make sound come out of it.  

“Simon…” I rasp. “Are you… all right?”

“Oh God… Baz…” His voice comes out muffled against my shoulder.

“What _was_ that?”

“Was that not supposed to happen?” He’s still panting. “Merlin and Morgana... I don’t know…”

My eyes close and I laugh. “You’re bloody incredible,” I say, which is absolutely true.

All these months of worry and self denial, and my first time with Simon winds up being fucking _transcendent_.

I should have guessed it would be like this. Snow is exactly the sort of bloke to leap off a cliff and stick the landing the first time. But I’m not sure there’s a single soul on earth, mage or otherwise, who could claim a similar experience to what we’ve just shared.

This wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t _Normal_ , either.

I very nearly say the other word—the one that far more accurately describes whatever that was—but I hold back.

Because I’m afraid to believe it.

“Snow… say something…”

“I don’t bloody know what to think,” Simon whispers. He sounds scared.

“Was it… all right, for you?” I ask.

He lifts his head to look at me. “Baz, no, you were amazing. It was absolutely everything I could have hoped for. But… did you…? Was that—“

“No, it wasn’t mine,” I insist. “I would have known if it was.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been _me_. Out of the two of us, you’re the only mage!”

“Are you sure about that?” I ask, my heart rate picking back up at the thought. “What did you feel?”

“Tingling. All over. Then a rush,” he whispers. “I don’t know if I can describe it. It was different from anything I’d ever felt before. More like a flash than fire. Electricity? Even that’s not quite it...”

I know what he’s getting at. I felt it, too. This wasn’t a surge of deep, pre-existing power. It wasn’t vast and infinite and ancient like it had felt the night we conjured the universe together in our bedroom at Watford.

This felt new. Unchanneled and unfocused like before, but _emergent_. Like the spark ahead of a blaze. Or the birth of a star.

“Like striking a match,” I think aloud.

Simon lifts his head to look at me, panic written across his face as he realizes what this means. I want to comfort him and tell him everything is okay—that _he’s_ okay—but I’m so startled at the implications of what’s just happened that all I can do is gape at him.

This shouldn’t be possible. It doesn’t make sense.    

But there’s no other explanation. All signs point to an astonishing truth.

_Simon has magic._

 


	2. Blaze

**NATASHA**

“Mother, how old will I be when I’m able to do magic?” Basilton asked me one day during the winter break. I’d given Vera the day off, which gave my son and me an afternoon together in the kitchen to make sweets for Christmas. His job was to crush the chocolate for melting.

“You’re nearly five years old now,” I said, lighting the burner with my wand. “You’ve already got magic in you. Likely, it will emerge when you least expect and surprise you.”

Dissatisfied with my answer, Basil pounded on the chocolate even harder. “But _when_?” he repeated. “And if it’s a surprise... will it scare me?”

“Some do get frightened,” I answered truthfully. “But not you, I don’t think. You’re a Pitch, and we all tend to find our magic the same way. It won’t be a bad surprise. One day, when you need it, you’ll know to call upon it, and it will answer. You just need to be patient.”

He put down the pestle and leaned over the counter toward me while I scooped up the broken chocolate pieces, dropping them into the double boiler. “How _do_ you call it?” he asked.

I smiled and reached across the counter to hold his hand. His palms were so smooth and pillowy compared to mine. He especially liked to run his fingers over my calluses and rough spots.

“You light a match inside your heart, Basil. And you blow on the tinder.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You will.”

 

  
**SIMON**

This can’t be happening.

I’m not a mage anymore. I can’t be. I shouldn’t be _allowed_. Terrible things happen when magic works through me, and if what I felt was mine, then the nightmare isn’t over. I’m a threat.

In a flash of memory, I’m back in a Hampshire forest trying to protect Baz from the Humdrum, only I’m painfully aware that I am harming the World of Mages at the same time, the magical atmosphere burning away over Pitch Manor in a blaze I created.

Fuck my life.

Baz can tell I’m losing it. He takes my face in his hands and stares into my eyes. “Snow, you’re going to blink out. Breathe,” he says warningly.

I shake my head.  “I thought this was over,” I groan.

“Listen to me,” he says, urgency in his voice. “It’s just like you said; this magic was different. Apart from you, I know better than anyone on this earth what your old magic felt like, and this wasn’t the same.”

“How can you be sure?”

He glances away thoughtfully. “Well, I couldn’t use it, that’s for certain. It wasn’t anything like the way it felt whenever you shared your magic with me. Nor did it feel the same as the spells and curses you would fling at me when we were at Watford,” he explains. “This magic had a different signature than anything you’ve wielded in my presence. The way Bunce’s magic is distinctively hers and mine is mine. Crowley, it even smells different.”

My head drops onto his chest. “Then why did I… Why did it… _erupt_ that way?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “It’s not like I have a point of reference for comparison. I’ve only ever had sex with you.” Then he cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “Maybe it’s something that can happen after an amazing shag.”

“If you’re a super villain?” I mutter.

He gives me a withering look. “If you’re with the right person.”

I say nothing. I just cling to Baz because he’s solid and sure, and I trust him more than I trust myself right now.

He holds me tighter. “It’ll be alright. As first times go, it well exceeded expectations, but honestly, I don’t think the magical atmosphere suffered for it,” he whispers, then lets out a short laugh. “ _Getting_ off isn’t quite the same as _going_ off, is it?”

Baz is stroking my hair, and suddenly, I’m astoundingly tired.

“Why don’t we both clean up and sort this out in the morning?” he says softly. “I’m knackered as hell, aren’t you?”

I yawn and nod. With his fingers winding through my curls, my heart rate finally begins to slow.

Baz and I don’t bother taking turns to use the loo. We file in together, one of us rinsing off in the shower while the other brushes teeth. It’s so ordinary and domestic that, as he disappears behind the shower curtain, I can’t help but smile to myself.

These are the moments I get a glimpse of life with Baz beyond university. I wonder if he ever thinks about that, too...

I’m the first one finished in the bathroom (of course I am), and though I’m fit to sleep standing up, I wait for Baz to return to turn off the light. He climbs into my bed and offers me his arm, so I settle myself against him, arm around his waist, leg threading between his, and tail winding around our ankles.

Baz gives me one last lingering kiss before I sink into oblivion to the sound of his breathing.

***

The next morning, I stir to the sound of papers being noisily gathered and unceremoniously dropped in the bin. My eyes open to discover Baz, shirtless in a pair of my joggers, clearing detritus off my floor and casting **_Clean as a whistle_ ** in every corner. He doesn’t even bother to inspect what he’s throwing out before another stack of papers goes into the bin.

“I might need those,” I say scratchily, rising up onto my forearms.

“Certainly not,” he counters, not bothering to look my way. “And you’re supposed to be part of a digital generation? Crowley, it doesn’t even take a wand to use the Cloud. And anyway, half of these papers are covered in doodles.”

“That’s the whole reason I was keeping them,” I mutter.

Baz sets his hands on his hips and looks about the room to survey his work. “That’ll do,” he surmises. Then turning to me he says, “Up with you, now. We’ve got work to do.”

I scratch my head, mystified. “ _Work_?”

“Of course,” he exclaims, his eyebrow cocked as if to suggest I should have expected post-coital homework assignments all along.

“What for?” I ask.

Baz rolls his eyes with his entire head. “Your magic came back to you last night, Snow! I’ve cleared this space for the express purpose of seeing if we can test it!”

I don’t bother concealing my disappointment. “I thought, being the morning after and all, you and I could enjoy a lie-in. Maybe I could even cook us up something to eat.” My stomach growls at the mere mention of food.

“Yes to eating, no to lying in,” he declares, taking my hand to pull me to my feet. “We can lie in any time we want. This is of critical importance.”

He looks so fit wearing my clothes I nearly forgive him for being such a killjoy. Only when I see the clinical expression fade on Baz’s face as his eyes veer downward do I remember I’m still naked as the day I was born.

He clears his throat.

“Get pants on, and meet me in the kitchen,” he commands, looking me over from head to foot with obvious restraint. “Oh, and by the way…”

In one graceful motion, Baz reaches a hand around my neck and pulls me into a swoon-inducing kiss so enthusiastically delivered to my mouth that I nearly tip over where I stand. A full minute later, once he’s done snogging me senseless, he whispers “Good morning, darling,” and sweeps out of the room.

Fuck a nine-toed troll.

I’m going to die kissing that bloody vampire.

 

**BAZ**

 

The way Snow looks this morning, I could drag him back under the covers right now if I weren’t so excited at the prospect of his magic returning. There’s something I’m desperate to try.

However, despite the potential miracle that took place yesterday, I get the distinct impression that he doesn't share my excitement.

I’m leaning against the kitchen counter while Simon, clad in a pair of cartoon illustrated Dalek boxers, makes us a breakfast of fried eggs, bangers and toast. He evidently also saved me a sour cherry scone from his excursion yesterday, only I don’t have the heart to eat it in front of him if he doesn’t have one. I cut it in half.

“I’ve been thinking about this unexpected development,” I say as he hands me an empty plate. “And I think I’ve worked it out.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ve always said that you were a hoax. That the magic wasn’t something you were ever meant to have,” I begin. “I’ve always fought you on that, but now I think perhaps you were right all along.”

Simon shovels eggs onto my plate. “About what? Being a hoax?”

“Don’t be thick. Of course not.” I set the plate on the counter so I can fill the kettle. “About having magic you weren’t meant to have,” I explain. “Simon, what if it’s true that all of _that_ magic—everything you gave to the Humdrum—was not only never meant to be yours, but also crowded out the magic you _were_ always meant to have?” I tap my wand against the kettle. “ ** _Some like it hot.”_ **

Simon loads his plate and shakes his head. “So the magic that showed itself last night was forced into hiding by my other magic… because it’s not the same magic?” he asks, confounded.

“Well, it sounds ridiculous when you say it like that, but yes,” I reply. “Think about it. The Humdrum was your echo. Your double. You gave him all the magic you possessed to defeat him, but beating him didn’t make you a Normal. It made you a blank canvas. Like the forest after a wildfire. One might think the forest is dead, but the ashes make for fertile ground.”

He sighs and takes the mug of tea I’m offering him.

His despondence is frustrating as hell, but I remind myself to be patient. He’s saying nothing, only because he’s struggling to make sense of what is, essentially, the paradox that is his life.

“Okay, let me explain it another way.” I stop him on his way to the table. “ _This_ magic,” I say, placing a hand on his chest, “is young. New. I felt it. It’s nothing like the infinite universe of power you used to carry in your breast, but it’s still yours. Crowley, it was so utterly _you_ —bright and defiant and raw and all the other fucking brilliant things you are. I think it’s just been dormant, waiting for the right moment to awaken.”

In an instant, Snow’s face turns bright red. “Do you mean to say the magic I was always meant to have has been waiting for me to _lose my virginity_ to finally show up?”

Aleister Crowley. One of these days, Simon is going to make my eyes roll directly out of their sockets.

“ _No_ ,” I huff. “I’m saying maybe it needed you to finally feel _whole_ again to emerge. It lit up as soon as you were finally ready to carry it.”

“I don’t know that I am ready,” he mutters, stifling a bitter laugh.

“You _are_. We just need to try it.”

He shrugs and sits at the table. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We’ll try.”

Sitting across from him, I reach out and take his hand. “Nothing bad is going to happen, Simon.”

Snow squeezes my fingers and offers me a weak smile, but I can tell he’s terrified.

He doesn’t finish his breakfast.

 

**SIMON**

 

I’m standing in the middle of my newly tidied bedroom, my stomach in knots. And while I contemplate the myriad ways this could be a terrible idea, Baz sits on the edge of my bed staring thoughtfully up at me with his legs crossed and lips pursed.

“Don’t start with the wand. You’ve always had a tumultuous relationship with those,” he says finally. “I think you should try with something more familiar. Call the Sword of Mages.”

I run a hand through my hair, and it occurs to me that I probably look as deranged as I feel. That we’re even conducting an experimental test of my magic feels like I’ve just stepped aboard the TARDIS and we’re tripping through time and space to an alternate universe where my magic not only exists, but somehow also heeds my commands.

(Baz would make a decent fourteenth Doctor, I think. He's got the authoritative act off pat.)

“I’m not so sure about that idea. The Sword of Mages has its own impulses,” I reason. “Even if I have magic, it needs to trust me, and I haven’t called it in over a year and a half.”

Baz tilts his head to the side and folds his arms across his chest. “You made me trust you in less time than that.”

“I could make a powerful argument that we both were suffering from questionable judgment.”

“Oh, just shut up and try it.”

I close my eyes and hold my hand over my hip. I try to concentrate. I think about the sword appearing, just as I used to.

“Nothing is happening,” I murmur, opening one eye.

Baz shakes his head and stands up. “You aren’t that mage anymore, Snow. You can’t rely on the way things used to work. Try to remember the very first time it came to you. Use your words.”

I wish I knew how this is supposed to work for normal mages. Before I gave my magic to the Humdrum, magic was always leaking out of me or threatening to leave a crater where I stood. My experiences as a mage were always about reigning magic in, not drawing it out.

I sigh and try to shake off my frustration. I speak clearly: “In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and—”

“No, no,” Baz interrupts, and he looks pissed off. “You sound like you're reading an instruction manual. You’re not even trying.”

I choke back a growl. “Of course I‘m trying!”

“Then bloody act like it!” He puts his hands on his hips and levels a glare at me. “Again.”

This is a practice in futility. But Baz is looking at me with intensity and hope in his eyes, so I try anyway—this time, with greater feeling.

“ _In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good._ ”

Nothing.

“This is absurd,” I say quietly.

“What’s absurd is your lack of interest,” Baz says, only he’s not scolding me. He’s legitimately astonished. “Crowley, Simon. Do you not care?”

I clench and unclench my fists, helpless to find the right words. “I do care, but… I’ve only just gotten used to being a Normal,” I say. “It’s taken everything I am to wake up each day accepting that my life doesn’t need magic to be a good life.“

“Snow—“

“I’ve learned to be content without it, Baz. I can just go about my day as an average bloke—”

“With wings and a tail—”

“Without worrying if I’m going to destroy something or someone, the two of us included!”

I can’t help it. Tears sting at my eyes.

Baz frowns at me without sympathy. “You’ve learned to be content. Comfortable,” he spits. “But not whole. Not true.”

“Baz, please. I can’t do this.”

He strides over to me, takes me by the shoulders, and looks directly into my eyes. “What are you so bloody afraid of? Finding out who you truly are? I can fill that part in for you. You are a _mage_ , Simon,” he says defiantly, “and you’ve never backed down from anything in your life, not even me! For fuck’s sake, don’t start now.”

He kisses me roughly, then touches his forehead to mine.

“Light a match inside your heart, Simon,” he whispers.

His mother’s words. The last time I’d heard them, Baz was shouting them at me because I couldn’t make my magic obey my will against the chimera.

_Because that magic wasn’t mine._

“Now, try again,” he commands.

Baz could be right. What if this new magic actually is mine, in that it’s _just like me_?

Stunted from years of neglect. Forced to smother itself to make room for a black hole no amount of magic could adequately fill. I momentarily envision myself as a kid with a small gleam of magic pulsing weakly in my chest, both of us withering in the darkness of endless care homes—slowly starving—until I went off and extinguished it for good.

But no.

It never left. It’s here.

It reignited in my heart last night.

I hold the image in my mind of that spark until I think I can feel it, warm and flickering in my chest. I imagine it growing, spreading, until I feel its gentle tingle washing over me again like summer rain. I draw in another deep breath and try to exhale the grief and frustration I’ve been holding onto for twenty long months, along with my abject terror of becoming what I was before I gave away all the magic I’d unwittingly stolen. I think of it all leaving me in a cloud of dark smoke.

Then I raise my gaze to Baz’s face.

“ ** _In justice_** ,” I say clearly, and I focus on his grey eyes as if I were making the pledge to him.

“ ** _In courage._** ” I take his hand. “ ** _In defence of the weak._** ”

My eyes close.

“ ** _In the face of the mighty._** ”

I bring my other hand to my hip, and I visualize the hilt in my palm. Solid and strong. A natural extension of my arm.

“ ** _Through magic and wisdom and good._** ”

My eyes fly open. I’ve stopped breathing. I look down.

Then I look at Baz. I can just make out his triumphant expression through the haze of tears clouding my vision.

The Sword of Mages has answered my call.

 

 

**BAZ**

 

Snow flings his arms around me and nearly lops off my hand with his sword as he does so.

I don’t mention it. It’s trivial. Everything is trivial compared to what has just happened in this room.

Simon is simultaneously laughing and weeping into my shoulder. “You did it, miracle boy,” I say against his cheek. “I knew it would work, you stubborn tosser.”

He pulls his face away to look up at me, and his cheeks have gone splotchy and red from crying.

“Oh, fucking hell, I don’t believe it,” he sobs, shaking his head and wiping his tears with the palm of his hand.

“Just you wait, Snow,” I say, and even I can’t help beaming at him. “With my help, you’ll be a formidable mage. I’ll bloody teach you to sing.”

He falls back into my embrace, his arms tight around my waist. “I can’t help thinking you made this happen.”

“Of course, I didn’t—“ I begin, but Snow pulls away and cuts me off with a finger to my lips.

“You did. I’ve been living like the Humdrum had taken up residence in my heart. Like he’d left one last hole. Right here.”

He places a hand on his chest.

“There’s a reason my magic returned last night, Baz. You said it was waiting for me to be whole to emerge. You couldn’t have meant I was whole without you.”

“Simon…” My voice trails off. Because I don’t know what to say. Snow and I have never been ones for emphatic declarations of love, but since last night, we can’t seem to stop ourselves. His eyes remain on me as he returns the sword to his hip, and it vanishes.

Then he takes my hand. “Do you remember when Agatha and Penny tried to bring me to the Wellbeloves for Christmas?” he asks.

I smile. “And you trekked back to my door in the snow like a madman.”

“A madman, yeah,” he agrees, grinning. “In the car with them, I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I think I knew it even then, that leaving you felt worse than any argument or fight I’d ever had with you.”

Simon gives my fingers a gentle squeeze.

”I’m glad you came back to me this time,” he finishes.

“I should never have left,” I whisper. “I was such an absolute idiot the other night. I asked you for space, and the second I had it, I didn’t want it. You’ve ruined me for solitude, Snow. I can’t bear it anymore, either.”

“You don’t have to.”

He cups my cheek.

“Let’s go again,” he murmurs.

“With the wand this time?”

“No.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Now?” I ask.

Snow lifts his hand and runs his fingers along my stomach. “Now.”

I don’t know quite how to put this. “I’m a bit… sore,” I say, embarrassed.

His face falls in concern. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, it’s not like that,” I reassure him, my cheeks actually heating up at the memory of what we’d shared. “It’s just the nature of it, I think. Our first time and all.”

“Then we don’t need to do that,” he says, his voice low. “I’ll touch you. Taste you. You can have me this time. Anything you want...”

Simon brings his hands back to my waist. He begins placing feather-light kisses across my collarbone and shoulder.

“I just want more,” he whispers against my skin.

“Aleister Crowley. So do I,” I say, my breathing already staggered at the startling list of options before me. I slip my fingers under the waistband of his pants and pull down while he loosens the drawstrings on my joggers (his joggers) and helps me out of them.

I may never get enough of feeling his bare skin on mine.  If I weren’t so besotted, I’d be helpless against the temptation to sink my teeth into him. He’s pressing his hips into me and the physical evidence of his arousal practically triggers my fangs.

My hands travel up his shoulders and circle around his neck. Now may be the perfect moment to do what I’ve longed to do with Simon since the first night he said he loved me.

He’s a mage now.

“Will you do something for me?” I ask.

“Anything.”

“Turn off the light.”

“Okay…” He casts a suspicious smile in my direction, then steps away to switch the light off. I draw the curtains and pick up my wand from the bed.

“Put your arms around me,” I say. Simon walks into my open arms and rests his hands on my shoulders.

“ ** _One hand, one heart_** ,” I say aloud, and I draw a circle in the air above us.

“I’ve never heard of that spell,” he says.

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“What’s it meant to do?”

“You’ll see,” I answer, smiling. And I kiss him.

As our lips touch, warmth spreads across my body and we begin to glow with dim golden light.

“Merlin and Morgana,” Simon gasps at the sight of light emanating from our skin. “How is this happening?”

“It only works if there’s enough collective magic between you and someone you love,” I whisper. Simon’s face gleams at my words. “It lets you wear your emotions on the outside. I’ve always wanted to show you how you make me feel, and now I can.”

I take one of his arms off of my shoulder so I can thread my fingers in his. The contact between our palms makes our hands glow brighter.

“Baz… this is amazing,” he says. “How long does it last?”

“I don’t know. Could be a few minutes. Could be an hour,” I say. With my other hand, I trace the length of his arm, across the moles scattered there. My fingertip leaves a thin path of bright light on his skin. His eyes catch mine and I’m momentarily undone by the expression on his face.

“Can I try?” he asks.

”Yes.”

Simon reaches out and draws a shimmering line down my chest with his fingers. I shiver.

“Where were you bitten, Baz?” he asks. Quietly.

Hesitantly, my fingers touch the right side of my Adam’s Apple.

“Will you let me kiss you there now?”

My body tenses but I nod my consent anyway. Because it’s Simon, and I should have realised yesterday that nothing he did could feel wrong. With one hand, he reaches behind my neck to sweep my hair away, and my head tilts into his palm to expose my throat. I keep my eyes open as long as possible so I can see his face as he bends it toward me. When his kiss touches my skin, my eyes close in spite of me.

I let go of my breath, relieved. Relaxed. He’s slow and deliberate, and it feels so good that I can see the trail of light his lips leave behind in my mind, the spectre of unseen scars erasing with the slide of his mouth.

A moment later, he leans back to look at me and brings his hands to both my cheeks. His thumbs smooth the tears away from them.

“I wish they’d never hurt you,” he murmurs.

“They won’t anymore.” I pull his face to mine, his fingers push into my hair, and my stomach drops, like we’re on a roller coaster racing downhill.

We both light up like torches.

When it seems we’ve both run out of air, Simon pulls back just long enough to say, “It can be my turn.”

“But… your tail….” I say, my brain suddenly unable to form full sentences.

“We’ll figure it out.” His eyes are soft with longing. “Get on the bed.”

I do as he asks, and the effect of seeing the desire radiating off his skin makes the air around me burn bright with love for him. He crawls onto the bed beside me, and kisses me like he’s trying to slow down time with his mouth.

Crowley, I love kissing Simon Snow.

In his daily life, unless a sword is involved, he’s graceless and blundering and, at times, too rough (especially with himself). He’s tragically uncoordinated on a dance floor, and his wings and tail only add to the overall menace he becomes whenever he’s distracted (which is all the time). For all these reasons, it’s a stunning contradiction how musical his kissing is. His movements are rhythmic. Melodic. His lips convey a song so tender and stirring, it’s work keeping myself from abandoning all rational thought.

It doesn’t help that he’s so achingly gentle. He runs his hands over me like I’m precious, despite knowing I’m stronger and more deadly than ten of him put together.

Simon touches me like I’m still human.

“You’re positive you want to do this?” I ask.

“I am. Are you?”

“Crowley, yes…”

I let my hands drift down over his thighs and pull his leg around me so he’s straddling my lap. He helps me arrange pillows so I can sit back against them, his hands pressed against the headboard, framing my face. (I wind his tail around my wrist.) Last night’s experiences with Simon have shown me the value of overcompensating with certain spells, so I cast “ **_Easy does it_ **” over my fingers and pray they aren’t cold as I reach behind him.

Our eyes meet as he lets me in.

Simon’s breath catches, and at the same time, his body gleams brighter, like he’s received a sudden electrical charge.

Incredible.

He buries his face in my shoulder, and grips the pillow. “Okay?” I ask.

He nods and responds softly into my shoulder: “Yeah.”

“It’s just me, love,” I say. “If it hurts, just say so, and I’ll stop.”

“Okay…”

He’s nervous, but I can sense his tension receding as I touch him, so I take my time, placing drawn out kisses anywhere I can reach with my mouth.

I think about how careful he was when he did this to me last night. In that moment, I couldn’t comprehend how he could manage it so perfectly having never done it before, but now I think I understand.

It’s because he knows me. Better than anyone.

And I know him.

We’ve spent nearly a decade of our lives revealing the best and worst of ourselves, learning how to read one another the way seafarers of old could chart a course across the world by reading the silent stars.

I’m thinking about this as my lips draw constellations across Simon’s skin.

Apart from the sound of our increasingly labored breathing, we’re quiet, and it occurs to me that everything that’s happened—that’s happening right now—was never about checking a box on a list of things I’ve always wanted to do to Simon Snow.

I’m different. So is Simon. Nothing will ever be the same after what we’ve shared together in this room.

Simon’s hand falls and takes hold of my wrist. “I think you can try now,” he murmurs. I bring my hands to his hips to steady him as he adjusts himself over me. I proceed as slowly as I can, both of us holding our breaths. Only when I’m completely lost inside him do we both remember to breathe, the sensation making a brilliant bonfire of our bodies.

“Still okay?” I ask, unable to control the trembling in my voice.

He doesn’t speak. He simply nods.

Our combined magic makes Simon so gorgeous to behold, I can hardly bear it. His eyes are closed halfway, his back arched, his wings spread wide. He’s glowing brightly with emotion, and I’ve never seen anything so breathtaking in my life. “Aleister almighty... You’re so beautiful,” I say shakily as I reach up to touch his chest, the imprint of my fingers lingering over his heart.

I’m utterly grateful to be a vampire in this moment. My every sense is heightened. I can hear the hum of blood coursing through Simon’s veins. His pulse is beating in my ears. His skin burns like fire under my fingers, and I smell his magic now, as well. It reminds me of the dawn—of dew and earth and the world starting over.

We begin to move, and I’m teetering on the brink of sensory overload. Making love to Simon has blown my heart wide open; I can hardly stay ahead of my own breathing. I’m going to pieces under him, gripping his hips and gazing up into the radiant ocean of his eyes as he sinks more deeply onto me. He rests a hand on my cheek and bends his head toward me as if to kiss me, but he falters, too overcome by what he’s feeling. He’s so close to my face, he’s breathing air into my parted lips.

Snow’s eyes are open, no doubt for the same reason mine are—because through the glow of the spell, we can see exactly what we’re doing to each other. “Jesus Christ,” he moans, biting his lip. “The way you feel…”

“Simon Snow… I was born to do this with you…”

“I love... hearing you.... say my name…” he rasps, clenching his fist in my hair.

I cling to his back. “Simon,” I repeat. “My Simon Snow…”

I catch his mouth in a kiss, and it’s a struggle to remember not to crush him.

Last night happened so fast, the years of restraint culminating and burning off in an accelerated rush of passion. Today, we’re savoring each other, every movement drenched in love and magic and ecstasy, and it’s so fucking amazing, I think it’s literally bringing me to life.

“Baz,” he pants. “Will you…?”

“Of course,” I murmur, and I bring my hand between us to touch him. It provokes a sound from Simon’s throat that sends my pulse into overdrive.

To my astonishment, I see the glow around us begin to change colour. The golden light enveloping us is deepening to red.

“Simon…” I gasp.

“I know...,” he whispers. “Me too...”

I can’t speak anymore. The words won’t form in my mouth.

But if they could, I know what I’d say.

_I’m so in love with you, Simon._

I search his eyes....

_I’m so irredeemably in love that I’ve lost all hope of ever wanting anyone else._

I find myself in them...

_You’re in every beat of my heart now._

I kiss the corner of his open mouth...

_With you, I’m not a creature._

He’s fire against my lips...

_Not lost in the dark._

We’re holding on…

_I’m yours._

Crying out...

_In the light._

Incandescent...

_Alive._

 


	3. Afterglow

**NATASHA**

 

The Veil is closing, and my son is not here.

Instead, I see another boy. The roommate. He’s frightened of me.

He should be.

He doesn’t know where my son is, and my heart is breaking.

I don’t have time, so I tell the boy what I’ve come to say and pray it reaches Basilton’s ears. The years of unrest have made me desperate, so I scour his face for reassurance and a sign that he can be trusted. A reason to hope that peace will find me before twenty more years have consumed my soul.

There’s something about him. My life as a headmistress knowing each of the thousands of students that have come and gone through Watford’s gates has given me a sixth sense about them. I could always intuit their character--how they would fare navigating the rough terrain of a magickal education, what their family lives were like, whether they were angels or scoundrels.

Something in this boy’s voice when he promises to convey my words makes me believe he is not the sort to break promises.

It gives me the strength to deliver one last message.

“My son,” I say, my eyes filling with the echo of tears. “Give him this.”

I kiss the boy on his temple as I used to my own son when he was young and frightened of shadows in the night.

_It’s okay, little puff. You’ll be all right._

I’m not a shadow.

“My son,” I call out one last time.

And I become a whisper on the wind once more.

 

**BAZ**

****

Simon’s head is resting on my chest. His fingers are drawing figure-eights on the back of the hand I’ve rested on my stomach. One of his wings is draped over us and the light from the spell has all but faded now, bringing brand new meaning to the word ‘afterglow.’ I’m more serene than I’ve felt in ages.

“Let’s never move again,” he mumbles, and we both start to laugh.

“Alas, that’s not an option,” I sigh. “I’m running on fumes. I’m so thirsty I could drain half of London’s entire tourist population.”

“Do it. No one would miss them.”

I snort. “Least of all me.”

Snow tilts his head up to look at me.

“Your light is dimming, Baz,” he says. “What are you thinking about?”

He’s right. The spell has exposed me.

”It’s not worth mentioning.”

”I’ll be the judge of that.”

I know better than to resist him when he sets his jaw like that. “I was just thinking of all those years I spent convinced that you were never going to look at me the way you’re looking at me now,” I admit. “All this time, and I still don’t know how we got here.”

“Why would you think about that?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Because staggering good looks and an enviable wellspring of intelligence doesn’t negate being a git who doesn’t deserve you?” Though I’m smirking when I say it, the glow around me fades further, giving me away.

“That’s tosh, and you know it,” he insists. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve someone loving you so much they’d risk Turning to be with you. You deserve a kick in the arse sometimes as well, and thank magic, I’m here to take care of all of the above.”

“Thank magic, indeed,” I say, smiling. The glow strengthens a bit, but overall, its magic is nearly spent.

“This spell,” says Simon, returning his head to my chest. “Where did you learn it?”

I let my cheek fall against his hair. “It was my mother’s,” I whisper. “She used to cast it to help me sleep. She said I had the light in me all the time, no matter how dark the shadows became.”

Simon smiles wistfully. “That sounds nice.”

I often forget no one had ever cast spells to magic away Simon’s fears as a child. Sometimes, Snow’s capacity for love astounds me given how little of it he got when he would have needed it most. I wonder if spending his youth as a bottomless well of magic explains his ability to care so deeply in spite of it all.

The thought prompts a sudden realisation.

“Love. Magic. They’re connected,” I think aloud.

“Hmm?”

“Mother’s spell. You getting your magic back. What she said about lighting a match in your heart,” I murmur.

“Magic needs love,” he says. “Seems like it should be obvious, doesn’t it?”

I smile. “Yeah.”

Every so often, Snow is breathtakingly perceptive.

He looks up at me and grins softly. “You know, when you put it that way, I’m surprised my magic didn’t show up sooner.”

“How’s that?”

“There’s so much I love about you.”

And there isn’t a drop of irony in his voice.

I raise an eyebrow and feign a sneer. “Trying to butter me up like one of your scones, Snow?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Simon props himself up onto his forearm to gaze down at me. “Your hands. How I can make them warm just holding them. That sleepy look you get when I run my fingers through your hair. Your droopy dog eyes and the way your fangs show just a little whenever you smile. I love that you’re sneering and stubborn and funny and better dressed than I am. I love your heart beating under my fingers,” he says quietly. “I especially love hearing you say you love me.”

“Is that so?” I whisper, my heart soaring.

His smile spreads all the way to his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Then, I love you, Simon.” I reach for his mouth. “I love you. Love you…”

 

 

**SIMON**

 

Baz once told me everything is a story. I’d like to think, over the last day or so, he and I rewrote some of ours.

It’s too much to ask for what we’ve shared to undo what’s been done to us. Some hurts run too deep to erase. But I want to believe Baz has a choice now. That he’ll look at this date on the calendar someday without reliving his nightmares and instead remember how we shined like stars in each other’s arms. How he brought my magic back to life the moment he chose me over wanting to hide.

The tingle of my magic returns as he kisses me, and this time, I don’t feel it like kindling.

It’s a fire. Bright, blazing, and true deep within me.

Baz’s mum was right. It was always there. I just needed to blow on the tinder.

I gave Baz the rest of her message as soon as I knew he’d let me, kissing him on the temple in the middle of the night in front of his fireplace at Pitch Manor. I wish she could see that he’s all right. That I’m the one protecting Baz now. That she’s still alive in him and through the things she taught him. Through the things he’s taught _me_.

Love as magic. Magic as fire.

He got that from you, Headmistress Pitch.

And where it burns, the shadows can’t touch us.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to TBazzSnow, Penpanoply, and Mr. Mudblood428 for your incredibly valuable beta work on this. This story pushed me WAY out of my comfort zone, and you helped bring out the best I could give to it. I am in your debt. 
> 
> To the person for whom this was written: This started out as a fun one-shot to match your favorite picture. But the more I wrote, the more I understood that I wanted this story to be about the transformative magic that love brings, especially to those who hurt and feel alone. I hope it makes you feel... light.


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